


Questionable Glory

by telemachus



Series: Waves of Glory [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 20th Century, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Europe/Britain between the Wars, Heroic Glorfindel, Longing, M/M, Miscommunication, Questioning Beliefs, Regret, Spanish Civil War, changing political views, russian civil war, semi-modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel has always been a staunch soldier, one of the traditionalists, a simple elf in many ways. Changing times force him to question his beliefs.</p><p>Erestor is a politican, a pragmatist.</p><p>And there's angst, and doomed romance as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Views expressed are those of the characters, of the time - bear this in mind when reading.

_Late 1927_

 

“Gods, Kitten, I thought we’d never get away. Bloody idiot. Goes on and on. You’ll come in for a – a drink?

Yes.

Here.

Now.

Shut the door, Kitten.”

Every time it is too long apart – every time I tell myself I will not simply fall into pleasure, I will insist we speak – not angrily, not in haste, and not clouded by passion nor dull-witted with satisfaction, but slow and considered, taking stock of where we are, what we want, where we go from here, how best to conduct ourselves. I am Erestor, I am not supposed to be so foolish, so hasty, so – reckless.

“Missed you, Kitten.

Missed you so much.

Mmm.

That’s good.

So good.”

But every time – whether it is weeks, or only days – it is as it was that first time we met, by chance, here in London after so many years. Years when I did not know if he lived, if I would see him again, if he ever thought of me – and to find he did made my world golden and glorious as I feared it never would be again. So that now, were it only hours, on every meeting it has seemed so long apart that I cannot help myself, I am starved for the sight, the sound, the touch, the taste of him, starved of his scent, starved of him. Every time I crave him so, I cannot resist the almost gravitational pull of his embrace.

“Don’t stop.

Don’t stop – Kitten – yes – like that.

Ah, Manwe, but I needed this.”

And so I am left with my urgent need for his touch, my desire as strong as his, and I hope – each time I half-delude myself into thinking – surely, surely he must understand, he must feel as I – surely this is – it is love, it is real and there will be a way for us.

“Been so long, so bloody long.

And you – you’re so good.

Kitten, oh Elbereth, Kitten, you feel – so good.

Yes, I’m here, your Goldilocks is here. And you’re just right. So right.”

His name, my own name for him, one which no other would ever be permitted to use, is like honey on my tongue, and when he calls me that which no other ever has – surely this is as much a union blessed by the Valar as any other – Elbereth, make it so, please lady of the stars, make this our love strong that it withstand all else, that we can find a way to cling and merge our fortunes as we do our bodies.

“Ssh now, ssh Kitten.

Stay quiet now.

Just for a bit, just – just be quiet.”

But what is the use of my prayer, if he offers not the same plea?


	2. Chapter 2

_1931_

 

 

After, he rolls, and pulls me with him, head on his chest, his hand stroking over me. Without thinking, my hand finds its way into his hair, playing with it, curling it round my fingers, so thick, so gold.

I should go.

I have been here the length of, say, two drinks. Much more would be unusual.

But I am comfortable, comfortable in a way I have not been since – well. Since last time we lay like this.

And I daresay it means little or nothing to him, toughened by his life as he is – I would be a fool to risk much for this.

I am no fool.

I tense myself, release his hair, ready to move.

“Wait,” he says, and then, hand moving still, “wait, Kitten, wait a bit. A little longer wouldn’t hurt. Surely.”

“I never told you,” he begins, and I – I know this is the start of one of his stories, his been-everywhere, done-everything, seen-it-all stories. I should move.

But I want to listen.

 

 

“I never told you where I went after the Armistice.

Maybe you already know, Kitten, but I don’t think so. If you did, you’d have asked by now.

Checked me for frostbite, perhaps.

They wanted me up in the intervention – the troops they sent in to Russia – oh what was the phrase – restore decencies – revenge I suppose after the Bolsheviks left us, abandoned the Eastern Front – anyway, some little bird must have told them I’d been in mountains before – that area even – sent me with a mixed troop. A few Men, some useful elves – and a handful of bloody Silvans. Mixed command and all.

Orders coming down – didn’t know whether to expect Quenya, English or bloody French. Elrond was mixed up in it – so I suppose the little bird must have been his darling Celebrian – since my Kitten isn’t blushing.”

_I’m not your Kitten, I say._

_How many times?_

_He ignores me. At least, he seems to._

“Whites, they called us. We had a fair few of the dispossessed Russkies with us. Cold blooded bastards they are.

Heard them talk about what they planned for their peasants – serfs they call them – when they get back. If they get back.

Fighting the Reds.” 

_He sighs again, and pulls me close._

“I need to tell you about this. Please, Kitten. I need to – make sense of it.

If anyone can make sense of it all, you can. You know I trust you, cunning weasel that you are.”

_I wonder if weasel is better than kitten?_

_But he seems – serious. He is rarely serious._

_So I listen._

_Perhaps once, just once, being here longer than is normal won’t matter._

“You know I was in Egypt, then Persia after you – you left? 

Yes. 

Well, that – that didn’t go so badly. It was no picnic, and – and Valar in the West, I missed you – but, compared to other places, it wasn’t so bad.

Until we reached Baku.

Oil fields there. That was what we were there for – oil.

Not lives, not politics, not – not conquest, not the promise of better things, or to prevent worse – just – oil.

Besieged.

Trapped in a city, and I – I couldn’t sit there and watch my troops burn.

It isn’t in me. 

Had to withdraw.

And then – then the bloody Turks turned tail and went home, left the place wide open to the next fucker to come along. 

Doesn't matter now.

But – if I’d stayed – lost men, yes, but – I wouldn’t have been sent north.

I wish I’d stayed, wish I’d not seen, heard, the things I did.

In the north – I suppose you know this – you don’t need the lesson, but I do, I need to talk it out and – there isn’t anyone else, Kitten, so – bear with me. In the north, they – the Reds – were efficient, well-organised, cohesive. They’d been fighting together for a while, they knew what they were doing.

I wish I’d been there.

Oh, we lost up there, our chaps died like bloody flies, like dwarves under arrows, but – it made sense. In a way. We were fighting lads who knew what they were doing, and why. Defending their home.

Fair fight, you might say.

I wasn’t there.

I was down – what do they call it – Siberia?

With a real mixed band. American, Canadian, Italian, French, bloody Silvans from all over looking as confused and terrified as they always do in that kind of situation – hopeless cannon fodder they are – on their own ground, hard to beat, excellent – but take them away from their bloody precious land – and they fall apart. Men don’t understand that, but you’d think we Noldor would have learnt by now.

Anyway.

And of course – thousands – more than any other – bloody Japanese.

Efficient little buggers, don’t get me wrong.

But too many, compared to all the rest. Unbalanced the coalition.

And – the damn Yanks were so busy worrying what they were up to, they lost the bloody plot completely. Wouldn’t move further than our Japanese allies. Wouldn’t let them out of their sight.

Nightmare.

And all the time – these bloody – White Russians.

Shit.

Nasty pieces of work they are.

Oh, I daresay some individuals are nice enough. At least, they may be. None of the ones I met were. 

You don’t want to know what they had in mind for – oh some damn silly set of Men or other – the knots they tie themselves in over their precious gods. Dear Valar, what fools these mortals be.

Anyway. Leaving aside Men’s tendency to murder each other over fairy tales – their army was a bloody shambles.

Conscripted peasants.

Which is all very well, needs must and all that – but – some situations – it doesn't work.

You can take a handful of peasant lads, tell them they need to toughen up, be warriors, be heroes, defend their home, save the girls – if they’re Men – save the little’uns for other races – and yes, works well enough, if you’re desperate. Bit like Silvans, peasants, the world over.

But – tell them they have to fight their own kind, because – well, because these other peasants are – throwing off their lords – doesn't work.

Think about it, it just begs the question – why don’t we do the same?

Well. 

Not for Silvans of course. They love their lords too much – although even Silvans – I think maybe they have a breaking point. Not so many Noldor lords loved there.

Anyway.

These damn White Russians – not content with that – they couldn’t run a piss-up in Oropher’s vineyard.

Sorry. Thranduil’s as it is now.

Forget Oropher’s gone.

Poor bastard.

Watched his other sons die, didn’t he?

And his people.

Battalions of them in one day.

Shit.

Come home from that, face your Silvans with all those lost – and then – sit and rot to death in their bloody miserable freezing mist, surrounded by deer and furry bloody cows.

Anyway.

The White Russians.

Not a one of them used to organising a damn thing. Truth be told, I don’t think they’d tied their own damn laces before, let alone loaded guns, or given a thought to tactics.

Horrendous.

And then – the worst – we captured – my lads and I – we captured a village.

I had my doubts, already, but – you’re paid to do a job, you do it.

Not mine to reason why.

So I told myself.

Someone clever, someone like Kitten, has thought this through, I told myself. Obey orders, Glorfindel.

Should have known it was wrong, when I started having to think like that. Hadn’t bloody learnt, had I?

That’s why I’m starting to think now. Questioning things I never did before.

Anyway.

We take this village.

And, to be frank, it’s a piss-hole. Stinking.

But – it’s their home.

Mostly Men, couple of families of dwarves, as you get in that kind of place, doing the ironmongery I daresay, no hobbits, not in that part of the world, oddly. Elves – bloody Avari – and shit, if you think the Silvans are weird, you’ve seen nothing compared to these guys.

Anyway.

Not bad people, not really.

Half of them probably no more Reds than they were anything else.

Just – ordinary types. Wanting to get along, to eat, to cuddle, to wake up tomorrow.

Shit.

We – we were under orders, see, Kitten – any settlements, let the Whites go in, take over, mete out justice. It’s their country, they know the ways.

Seems fair enough.

Worked other places.

But – Valar, the hate. The bitter hatred.

They came marching in, and we – we handed over, left in good order.

Camped a mile or so off, began to plan the next march, let the lads get some sleep, except the sentries of course.

Went out, as I do, around the moon’s height, to have a chat with the lads on guard, see all’s well, let them know they’re not forgotten – they like that, Kitten. 

All well.

Until I get to the lad nearest the village.

Silvan, with all the sharp ears and skill at concealment of his race, fortunately.

He was shaking, shaking with fear, poor lad – looked at me, and kept saying – and it took me a while to understand, because he wasn’t one of my Silvans, not a scrap of decent English, all French bloody accented, even his damn Sindarin had letters where they aren’t bloody meant to be, and dropped off where they should – but he kept saying something wasn’t right. No danger to us, he didn’t think, but – the sounds were not right. Shouting, anger, pain.

When a Silvan says something like that, you listen.

So. I rounded me up a little group – couple of my trusties, couple of these French Silvans, say what you like, you want someone sneaking up on, Silvans are the boys to do it – and we went to look.”

_He stops, and he looks away from me, back into the past._

_Another piece of his past I don’t know, another piece he can’t really share with me._

_I wait._

_He shrugs._

“Some of the Avari had got out. 

Clever sods, they’d slipped their ties, wriggled through windows, slunk as only elves can slink – and Kitten, Avari out-slink even Silvans – and lived.

We found one, got himself out, and then fallen apart.

His brother, you see.

Married – or something – to a daughter of Men. Wouldn’t leave her, or the children. You get a handful of mixed marriages, place like that.

And of course the little’uns – they weren’t elves. No way out for them.

So he stayed.

As you would.”

_I remember that, afterwards. The way he says it, the unquestioning assumption that a father stays with his children, no matter what, no matter if it is pointless sacrifice._

_It takes me years to wonder – is it the act of a father, or of a lover that he understands?_

“He said he thought – when we got him able to talk, when I found a Silvan who could understand him – about half the elves had got away. The others – either they wouldn’t, or they couldn’t – bound too well, hurt, blinded – one had spoken out, cried to the Valar for vengeance – had her ears slit for her pains.

She – well, I don’t know – we couldn’t make it out – whether she couldn’t leave, or wouldn’t with that disgrace.

Odd chaps, Avari. He kept saying she was no elf, yet still elf she was, and the Valar would hear her.

Sounded as though they had a different understanding of the Valar to us, but – if it helped him, I wasn’t going to argue.

He reckoned the dwarves – some – the useful ones – might have been kept alive.

Maybe a couple of the girls.”

_He looks at me, and then away, and I see he isn’t sure I understand._

_I am not so far removed from the world as he has seen it as all that._

_Not for long, I say, and he nods._

“We offered the Avari – never knew his name, they’re careful with them, don’t give them out easy – shelter with us, to collect his people, help, anything – offered to go to the commanders, offered justice.

He said nothing.

Shook his head, and spat.

We let him go – what else could we do?

But I – I went back to camp, I woke my second, made up a little deputation, and we went back to that village.

Made ourselves known.

Helped quench the terrible accidental fires.

I think we rescued a score maybe.

Not much.

But something.

And I – I was careful never to hand over to those Whites again.

Truth be told, I found I hadn’t much appetite for the campaign at all after that. Don’t think any of my lads did.

We went on, but – there was no pride in it.

We’d been told we fought a War to End All Wars.

I’m a career soldier, for King – or Queen – and Country, that's been my life, and I didn’t believe it.

But a lot of my lads – they did. They joined up believing, they fought believing – they died still believing.

And the ones that made it through – they were handed over to see this.

It was wrong.

Too wrong.

Not just – accidental, mistakes were made, one of those weasel phrases. It was wrong, and lies, and – I was ashamed.

We weren’t there long, but every day of it I was ashamed.

So much happened, so many weeks it seemed.

Watching my lads die, watching them shoot those of whom we knew nothing – except they hated the Whites as much as I did by then.

I was glad we lost, glad we were recalled.

None of it – none of it sat well with me, Kitten. 

Explain it to me, explain it to me like I’m an elfling,” _and suddenly he looks at me, those blue eyes asking, wanting, needing – needing something I don’t have to give,_ “explain to me what I was doing there. What those elves, Men, died for.

Why we were told to shoot down – villagers – nothing more, factory girls – I don’t know, I don’t know what race, or who they were, but – they were schoolboys, some of them, students, barely old enough to fight, didn’t know what they were doing, never held a gun.

To start with.

All they wanted was what they had been told – a new world, freedom – whatever that means – a chance to shape their own lives.

Hold some power – just a little – just a very little power – in their hands.

Power over their own lives.

Food.

Boots.

That’s what they died for – enough to eat, decent conditions.

Some of them – I heard the landowners on our side talk – some of them – all they wanted was the chance to marry who they liked.

Live how they wanted.

Leave their home village.

Not be a peasant farmer all their life.

And I was there, sent there by – by your civil service – to stop them.”

_I can feel him looking at me._

“Kitten, you told me once, you told me your family – don’t have much. First thing Celebrian ever told me about you – grammar school boy, she said.

You think it’s right? That they should be condemned to the life you didn’t want – because they were born in a Russian farm-worker’s hut?

And if it isn’t – I’m not asking to be sent in to change the world – maybe this country has enough to do without that – enough places to govern – and I’ve been out there bringing them in before now, building roads for empire, pacifying as they call it – but always before, I’ve been proud.

I’ve thought – yes. Maybe the methods aren’t perfect – but – we are making lives better.

Yes, we take, we conquer, we rule – but – we give as well. Roads, laws, justice, trade, irrigation. 

Peace.

It’s always felt worthwhile before.

But this time – it didn’t.

Explain it to me, Kitten, explain it to me like I’m an elfling.

What was I doing there?

And when they recalled us – why?

What changed?

Why was it suddenly right for those people to be allowed to choose their own government – why ever shouldn’t they have said no tsar, no king?

Kitten?”

 

 

I sit up, pull away from him.

“I can’t discuss politics with you,” I say, “you know that. More than my job’s worth.”

He reaches for me, half-laughing, as though he doesn’t see I am serious.

“Kitten, how can you – more than your job’s worth? The discussing politics is the sacking offence? Not the – the rest of it? Mutual onanism and sodomy? Unnatural acts? Whatever the legal words are.”

I stand, and look for my clothes,

“No need to compound the matter,” I say, shortly, because how can I say – I doubt you are stupid enough to tell anyone about that, but I don’t trust you not to talk politics when you are drunk. And you are often drunk.

By the time I am dressed, he seems to understand I am serious, and has pulled on his dressing gown – gorgeous, heavy blue and gold silk, I want to reach out and touch, push him down and start again, unwrapping him slowly, teasing him with the feel of silk, teasing myself with the heat, the hardness under it.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I have been here too long already.

I walk to the door.

“Don’t even think of seeing me out, not in that, Goldilocks,” I say, because really, does he want people to know? Anyone would think he was proud of this.

His eyes drop, and for a moment, he slumps, then he is upright, perfect once more, as he says,

“When next, Kitten?”

I shrug.

“Let’s not try and make arrangements we may not be able to keep,” I say, keeping my voice controlled with an effort, “I daresay we shall run into one another soon enough.”

And I walk out of the door, not looking back.

 

 

 

All the way home, I concentrate on the roads, the shadows, on avoiding danger, on keeping safe.

Once inside my rooms, I can no longer avoid the thoughts.

When next?

Whenever you want, whenever you can, please. Oh please. I wish. I wish so much, so very much.

But it isn’t possible.

I know it, you know it, you simply won’t admit it, my sweet Goldilocks, as you will never admit knowledge of anything you don’t like.

Yes, of course I miss you.

I miss those days in Greece, those nights, those nights when my world exploded into fire, when you – you made my heart and body sing.

Of course I do.

But this is London. This is real life.

This is 1931.

We are not bright giddy young things, setting out to shock, and drink, and live only for fun – we are not foolish Sindar lordlings, and whatever ridiculousness they may be able to laugh off.

We are sensible, respectable, mid-aged – for elves – bachelors.

We can each afford our own establishments, and must be seen to live there.

You were not here in 1917, 1918, at the height of the fervour. You did not hear the anger, the ravings about the little black book of German debauchery. The patriotic fervour as the casualties in the trenches mounted, the fervour that looked for someone to blame – and chose, among others, what they termed sexual deviants, corrupted and blackmailed by the evil nun-raping Hun. 

You did not hear them baying as Spencer and Pemberton-Billing spouted their lies, their ravings. You did not hear and see the libel trial, with all the echoes of an earlier one, all the same hatred.

And what of it that Spencer was certified, that it was all lies?

All lies, all rubbish, all laughable. 

Except – people were taken away on such evidence, people’s lives destroyed.

You may not be afraid, you may have name and influence enough on your side – commendations enough of heroic service – you may be confident you would be shipped off to some comfortable country house, with perhaps a few eccentric residents, and a qualified trick-cyclist to sit and talk to you about your parents.

I am – as you kindly pointed out – a grammar school boy made good. A pen-pusher, a non-combatant, one who was in a reserved occupation – so yes, I am afraid. I do not want to spend years rotting in Reading gaol.

I love you.

But I am no fool.

We are elves.

One thing we have – is time.

Can you not understand, Glorfindel? 

We must needs be patient, and wait until the world changes in our favour.


	3. Chapter 3

_1936_

 

There is a knock on my door, and as I go to answer, I hear my landlady’s voice,

“He won’t be a moment, I know he’s there – and he never sleeps before midnight, always working he is, works so hard, I tell him, it’s not good for you, Mr Vanimedlion, you should take care of yourself, you won’t be young forever, not even you elves, you should be settling down –“

She breaks off as I open it, wondering in whom she is confiding so unnecessarily.

“Oh,” I say, and I wonder what happened to my reputation for intelligence.

“Will you be wanting anything else?” she asks, and no, no we will not, I shake my head, and as she bustles off, I step back, letting him follow me inside.

Whatever he has to say, can only be better said behind a closed door.

But the instant I shut it, instead of the recriminations I expect – it has been years since last we met, and doubtless he will say the fault is on my side, as though I care not, as though every day I see him not does not ache and scald my heart – his arms are round me, and his mouth on mine.

For a moment, a long, wonderful moment, I allow myself to give in, to relish the touch, the safety of his strength, the warmth of him, to drink in the taste, the happiness, the – the rightness of this. I feel myself begin to glow, to shine, to become – the elf I am meant to be – even as I can feel the tension in him ease.

Then we must stop to breathe, and although I rest my head against his shoulder, although I feel I am where I should be, at last, at last, although he is stroking through my hair, and whispering nothings, nothings which tell me he feels the same – I cannot stop myself.

“What are you doing here? I thought we had agreed – what the hell are you playing at? It is gone ten of the evening – no time for respectable bachelors to be calling – Glorfindel – it has been three years. Three damn years since I heard anything – and that was the merest postcard – five years since I have seen you – and you waltz in, Goldilocks, expecting nothing changed?”

He steps back, and the cold between us makes me feel worse.

“Has anything changed?” he asks, his eyes running over me, a touch as hot as his hands, it feels, “you did not greet me as one who has changed.”

I look away, and back, and drop my eyes in the face of his openness.

“Yes. No. No, nothing has changed – nothing at all. This is still England, still London, still – still no place for such – behaviour,” he looks at me, and I cannot help myself, “and still I – I welcome you.”

He smiles, and for an instant, I smile back, my heart alight, my world right; then I bite my lip, and shatter us both,

“But it cannot be this way. You know it – I know it – we have been deceiving ourselves with hope, with wishes. I – I am no minor functionary – you are no common soldier. We cannot pretend that we are – anything other than a security risk, a breach of the decencies. You know this as well as I.”

He walks, as though to meet such pain in any way other than with action would be unthinkable, to the fireplace, and kneels to build up the fire.

“You think this still?” he asks, and looks briefly to see my wordless nod.

“Then – Kitten – please – listen to me. If we cannot live as we choose here – if this country – to which we have both given much – will not give us this – maybe – maybe we should reconsider our choices.”

Carefully he stacks the coal, coaxes a flame, even as I try to make sense of his words.

“You speak of – leaving?” I ask.

Still intent on his fire, he nods.

“I have resigned my commission,” he says, and I stare, aghast, because – because what is Glorfindel without his rank? He is a soldier, a warrior, through and through.

And for what reason has he done this?

Am I at risk – will his very presence compromise my integrity? Jeopardise all that I have achieved?

He looks at me, and laughs, shortly,

“Not in disgrace, not even in anger. At least, not as far as my superiors are aware. I – oh Kitten – can you not see? Are you content to live like this for the rest of our lives?”

I frown.

“But it is unlikely to be for the rest of our lives. Things change. The ways of Men change – you know this as well as I – better I daresay,” since he is older, he has seen much more than I, “and the pace increases – what are a few more decades?”

He laughs once more, and I do not like the sound. It is not the joyous laughter, the ringing of bells that once set me free of all I had learned to fear, it is harsh, abbreviated, painful.

“What are a few more decades? – They are time that no warrior can be confident he will live. Kitten – Erestor – I love you – you know this – and this country will not let me declare it. So I find that now – now I am no longer sure about the loyalty by which I have always lived. I do not know where my duty lies – how can I put aside my sworn duty to the Crown – but how can I not, when that oath would tear me from my – my duty to you, to my heart?”

He stands, suddenly, and is leaning over me, pulling me close, intent on my face as he asks,

“Do you feel nothing of this? Does your – your work – your duty – mean more to you than I?”

I do not like to be – and the word is wrong, but I cannot find a better in this moment – manhandled so.

I glare at him, until he releases me, and I step back and away.

More?

No.

As much?

Yes.

Yes, it does. My work matters to me, it is who I am. I cannot throw it aside, leave all that I know, simply for some – some romantic folly.

“It is all very well for you, to charge in here with speeches ready,” I say, and the anger in me is greater than I knew, “until an hour ago, I was not even certain you yet lived, and now – now you would have me cast off all that I know, all that I have striven for, merely because you – you have a dream of – of what? What is your great plan, your scheme?”

He turns away, paces once more.

“I – I do not clearly know,” he says, and I must restrain my bitter laughter, as he continues, “I – Kitten – you know – I have expressed doubts to you before – and you were kind enough not to mock. I find, as time continues, I am impatient with the speed of change here. I want to break away, to throw down all that is old, and foolish, I want to be in at the creation of something – of a new society, of a land that is truly fair and just, a land ruled by the wise, not merely by the wisest of the right birth.”

Ah yes, he has spoken of this before, of a wish to cast down the rule of those trained from birth, of those to whom it comes as natural as breathing, and set in place – demagogues. I raise my eyebrow, 

“And where is this – this Valinor to be built?” I ask, and as he answers I shake my head in despair.

“In Spain – there – this war – this civil war is a strife for all that is good and pure and right against the worst of the old ways – and I – I know people – there are men and elves going out every week – to join the – they call it the International Brigade – an elf who is there, on the ground, part of it – there would be a home there for him, when this is over. And – Kitten, oh my Kitten – they need not only fighters, they need people like you – to ensure the fighters are well-supplied, are kept informed – you know better than I how vital someone like you is. Kitten – come with me – if we are there – there are many such idealists going – and they will break the shackles which tie Men so to their dismal gloomy churches – as they did in Russia – and do not start to tell me things changed there, I know, but – but that is the madness of one man, it will be over soon enough, and in Spain – if there are so many who will go – so many believers in the cause – they will make a place where – where you and I can stand before all and say – we love,” he looks at me, and I must look away not to see the longing in his eyes, “is that not worth risking all, my Kitten?”

“For the last time,” I say, my anger breaking through all the sense in me, “I am not your kitten.”

He steps back, as though I have slapped him, and hastily I search for better words, seeing how unkind I have been.

“Glorfindel,” I begin, “I did not mean that – I meant only – I am not simply your kitten. Yes, such a land sounds very fine. But what guarantees have you – guarantees that when the fighting and the work is done, all such promises will not be forgot and you and I left every bit as exposed to ignominy as we would be in like case here? In my experience, the fine words of Men who wish for aid are worth little when once the aid is given.”

He looks at me and the sadness in his eyes is so deep, so very eloquent, that almost I could wish I were able to change my mind, to throw aside all that I am, to run away, follow him wherever he would go.

“You are not my Kitten. You – you have said it so many times, and now – now I hear you. You do not believe in – in anything you cannot see or touch, in any promise that is not bound by law. You will not risk – one single coin of all your wealth, one jot of all your influence – you will not put your trust in Fate, in the Valar, in our love. You – you are not the Kitten with whom I fell in love, not the elf who loved me under stars and moon, who rode with me under the burning sun, whose eyes taught me the depth of midnight pools and whose hair – whose hair bound me surer than any chains. You have become – sensible.”

I shake my head, 

“No,” I say, and it hurts to admit it, “not become. I always was sensible. I never asked you to bind yourself to me, never promised more than I have to give. I am what I am. Your life is your own, as it ever was, to use as you will.”

He sighs, and turns away, staring into the fire,

“Then I will go,” he says at last, “I will go, for it seems still to me the best endeavour that there is, to build a better, freer land,” he pauses, and walks to the door, and I – I cannot help but follow him. He stands, hand upon the latch, and then turns once more, “Erestor – if I were a Man – I would tell you I will find another – who will choose to stand up beside me, and fight together for our love. I would tell you that you need no longer presume old promises apply. But I am no Man. You – you are my true love – and anything I ever promised you, I hold to be yours still. Only ask,” and he leans in, and once more our lips meet, gently this time, no passion, only – only longing for the way things once seemed they might be, “be well, my sweet love.”

He opens the door, and now I – I can only speak as I would before another, as I say,

“Be well, Glorfindel, the ever-valiant.”

He dips his head in acknowledgement, and goes.

I shut the door, and take me to my bed of loneliness and tears.


	4. Chapter 4

_1939_

 

In these days of uneasy peace, these days when all are unsure what to do, how to act, what to plan, when London begins to stir, preparations to be made for a war – which is not yet a true war – a war which may still not happen – in these days, I am lucky to be an elf, to need little sleep, little time away from my desk.

I am lucky not to have any waiting for me.

So they tell me, joking, I think.

What it is to be free and unburdened, they say.

Do not rush into any wedding, they laugh, as so many are doing now. No, Erestor, we know you are wiser than that – have you not lived through such times before?

And I smile, slightly, my face a mask.

I do not let their words hurt – how can I – they mean no harm.

But I – I think of days and nights under a hot sun, I think of that short span of years when I waited, breathless, for word that he was in town once more.

And I wonder where – in what dismal hole – what pathetic grave – such beauty came to rest.

Which Spanish fascist aimed the gun, threw the grenade, wielded the dagger, that slew my bright Goldilocks?

As though it matters.

I remind myself he may not be dead.

That he comes not to see me, does not mean he is dead.

He may be well, and busy, and – despite his parting words – he may have someone else by now.

What matters it?

He could be anywhere, doing anything.

I care not.

I simply – wish I knew him to be alive and well, and happy.

 

 

 

 

I do not know why I am even thinking of him, profitless as it is, when I have other things I should be thinking of, matters far more important than the fate of one individual.

I have not thought of him for – days.

Even as I wonder, I understand.

Somewhere, not quite out of range of an elf’s ears, I have caught a voice, an intonation, a lilt, so like his, it has made me yearn once more.

Unable not, I look around this busy Lyons tea-shop, hoping to see that flash of golden hair, to hear that voice again – in a large group, no doubt, telling stories, the centre of attention – but that is all I want.

To see him well, and living life as he should.

Not to be noticed, no.

Simply to know that he is well, and then – then be able to walk away, to try to forget.

Bury it, bury the need, the longing, the wish for the world to be different.

However, before I can be sure that he is not here, the waitress has returned, and I must concentrate, order, make light conversation – she is a pleasant girl, as girls go, decent and respectable. I come here often enough that she recognises me now, sometimes will even go so far as to recommend a particularly nice cake.

Were I a different elf, I might take this as flirting – but it is not – she perhaps sees a – loneliness – in me, and is merely kind.

Today – today my heart is not in it, and she sees I am distracted.

I do not even know what I have ordered.

But she brings my pot of tea quickly, and I remember to smile, remind myself to leave a tip. There are not so very many people in this world who are kind – one should acknowledge them. 

I look at my tea, and for a moment, I have no idea what it is, or why it is in front of me. What do I want with this?

Where is my – retsina – my sunshine – my fresh olives, or new-caught fish, covered in sand, and thrown aside when better than food presents itself to my mouth?

What am I doing here, in this crowded city, this mean and boring little tea shop in a mean and boring little country?

Why am I not – wherever he is?

Why did I turn down adventure, and risk, and danger – and love?

Then I shake myself, and drink my tea.

I must be more tired than I thought, working harder than I knew.

I did not turn down love, I did not turn love away.

If he loved me – as he said he did – if it was real, and not merely a dream, regretted when real life intruded – he would not have gone off so many times, for so long, with no word. He would have found a – a way to stay here, to perhaps – eventually – share rooms. 

Not quickly, but carefully, slowly, building a known friendship first – and then – one day – we could have at least lived together.

No great country house, no shared bedroom, no acknowledgements or congratulations – but – a very private world where we two could have made our own space.

But he never listened when I tried to say it; he never wanted to hear of slowly, caution, long-term plans. He only wanted quick hours of brief pleasure, and then – then to return to his exciting life.

Leaving me here.

To drink my tea.

 

 

 

I am thinking all this, telling myself not to grieve over something that was never what I hoped, imagined, telling myself that I am no maiden to feel betrayed and left, he did not seduce me – or at least, I was not unwilling – trying once more to push it away, when the loud group of – what are they – not soldiers – airforce recruits – soon, I suppose, to be our brave defenders, come pushing past. 

I do not look up.

They are – as these types do – spoiling for a fight, eager to show their machismo. 

Warriors, I think.

All the ages of the world, they do not change.

The last stops by my table.

“I am sorry for their noise,” he begins, “but – they know they could be dead soon enough – forgive them, by your courtesy, mellon-nin – “

But I – I look up – I should not, I should keep my head down, rejoice in silence at this vision, this knowledge he lives, is well, is once more an officer, is restored to himself.

I am a fool.

I look up, and he meets my gaze.

“Erestor?” he says, and the note of disbelief hurts. Am I so changed?

I had not thought it long enough that I had changed.

“Erestor!” and he calls to the rearmost, “Algy – I’ll catch up with you soon enough. Old friend here – carry on – I need to – to assure myself I am not dreaming –“

The other smiles, and nods, and walks away, even as Glorfindel – my Goldilocks – my beautiful living breathing smiling Goldilocks – finishes speaking, and sits.

“Erestor,” he says again, and I – I wish this were a different place, a different time perhaps, a time when I – I could reach out, and ask him am I no longer your Kitten? But it is not, this is London, 1939, and a respectable tea shop. No place for two such as us to hold hands, or cling, or – anything really.

“Glorfindel,” I say, quietly, “you are well?” and as the waitress passes, “another pot of tea, perhaps – you will spare me five minutes?”

He looks at me in silence for a moment, and then nods, “Tea, yes. And – five minutes? For you – all the time you want my – my dear.”

I bite my lip. 

He has no sense to say such things aloud. It is fortunate she had turned away already, she will not have heard.

I keep my hands busy with my cup, afraid lest he reach out, and cause a scene.

He sighs.

“Erestor – “ and then he seems to change his mind, “what did you want to say?”

I shrug.

“I did not know you were back in London, I was – surprised,” I say, and then, “are you – well?”

I can feel his eyes on me, but he does not start anything – unsuitable.

“Yes, I am well, as well as – as can be expected,” he says, and there is a hint of bitterness I never heard in his voice before. For a moment, I fear I am responsible for it, but then I recall what I have heard of Spain, and think – no, not my fault. I told him not to go.

I nod, and after a moment he continues.

“I have been back here – nearly six months. I daresay things might be more difficult if there was not the current emergency, but, well, Elrond – you remember Elrond, Celebrian’s husband – he put in a good word for me with someone, and – here I am. Wings this time. Should be a change, at least. Good group of lads.”

I nod, as though any of that matters, and find my voice.

“You – I did not even know you were alive,” I say, and then, “how was – no. I can guess how it was.”

He looks down, and shakes his head.

“No. No, Erestor, even you – if you haven’t been there – through something – like that – you can’t,” he picks up a teaspoon, and starts – fiddling – in a most uncharacteristic way, “I don’t mean to criticise – I believe you, you know all the facts, all of what happened – but you didn’t feel the grinding on and on of it, the arguments, the disagreements amongst us. The betrayal. The – the things that happened – the things the other side did, the deaths – oh Elbereth, the deaths – the way some of them died. And then – finding out – some of our own – were as bad,” the teaspoon is almost circular now, and I hope my nice waitress will not be annoyed – I will tip her enough to cover it, later, “I daresay you have read up on it all. The typhoid, the dysentery, the hunger, the children killed, the – oh words don’t do it justice. You can’t guess what it was like.”

“No,” I say. And for a moment, I want to add – and you can’t guess what it was like for me. Knowing about all this – and you there – and not knowing if you were alive or dead. If you died a hero, fighting the war you believed in – or if you died miserable, sick and crying out for me – if you died in agony, broken and bleeding and left knowing you had lost all honour – if you died knowing you had wasted yourself, knowing it was for nothing.

I don’t say it.

This is hardly the place.

There is silence for a long moment.

“I – I was a bloody fool to go,” he says, suddenly, “a bloody fool. All that – guff – about building a new world, a new way of doing things – as though anything worth having could be built that way. Believing that there was a better way to do things. I suppose you laughed when you started to hear about the way things are in Russia – it’ll always be Russia to me – now. The killings, the camps, the queues. All that pain and misery – and the poor are still there, still queuing for bread. Bloody fool I was. And – believing things – could change for – for people like us,” he looks steadfastly at his tortured spoon, and I – I stop myself from looking round the room, flinching at the thought someone may have heard him, may have understood. He sees, and his voice drops a little, enough I hope that among all the chatter and the noise of cutlery, the music, the traffic outside, his words are hidden, “I suppose you laughed at me when you knew – I suppose you know – Uncle Joe hates queers as much as Hitler does,” his eyes flick up to me again, and I shrug, because yes, I knew, and I was not surprised, but what is there to do but carry on, “so you may have been right to stay here, keep your loyalty to this place after all. It’s not enough, to be ignored and tolerated when hidden – but it’s better than the alternatives.”

I am silent.

This is not the place for this conversation.

He sighs, and I know I disappoint him once more.

Then his tea appears, and he looks at it with something like hatred.

“What is it with bloody tea?” he asks, and I – I want to laugh, but I find I have only a small smile in me as he continues, “and you – this time of the evening I would have thought to find you drinking wine – “

But before he can begin to reminisce, I cut him off, for I don’t think I can bear to hear those days spoken of as though they were – simply a holiday, a game – even though that is all they were to him – I cannot bear to be reminded that those weeks, months – the pinnacle of my life – were but another campaign.

“Tea is more suitable,” I say, and add, how cruelly I realise only long afterwards, “wine was never really to my taste.”

Another pause, and then almost physically he pulls himself together and asks, 

“You are – well? Working?”

I nod, and describe, as quickly as possible, how my career has moved, these last few years. And then I find myself adding,

“I am still living where I used,” I do not say – if you had looked, you would have found me, only you did not care to look, “if you are not busy – would you walk that way, perhaps?”

My landlady is away.

If you are not watched for – we might have – hours.

And this – this constraint – surely there would be more ease between us were we alone?

Surely – please – is there nothing of those days left? Will you not touch me, let me touch you, one more time?

If you are off once more to battle – may I not wish you good fortune in the oldest way of all?

He looks at me, and whatever he reads in my face must be – too much – too urgent, too needy, because he looks away, and then,

“Thank you, no. I have had my fill of tea. And besides, we ship out tomorrow – down to – well, the country, let us say – for more bloody training. Best to spend this evening with my lads, keep an eye on them, you know,” he pushes back his chair, stands, even as I am searching for a way to say what I mean, what I long to ask; to plead with him to give us – me – another chance, “I am glad to see you well, Erestor. Take care of yourself,” he hesitates a moment, and I try to make myself speak, but my words are gone, “here is the price of the tea.” 

He flips a couple of coins onto the table.

And he walks away.

I want to stand, to run after him, to – to throw all caution to the wind, and go down on my knees, and beg him to – to hold me again, to come home with me, to – to be my beloved once again.

But I am not so melodramatic as to believe such foolishness can go unnoticed.

Besides, it is clear he cares not.

There may even be another, I suppose, though I think it unlikely. Heroes are content with only their own fame, perhaps, they need no more.

I do not even turn to catch the last sight of him.

I sit and stir my tea once more, as though that will help when it is cold, and nasty.

My toasted teacake arrives in front of me, and I should summon up a smile for the girl – it is not her fault – but I have nothing in me that can smile.

Unreasonable, I think, pathetic, Erestor. You wanted to know he was alive and well – and he is – do not ask for more. Do not go back on your word.

He is alive and well.

For now.

The waitress pats my hand, gently,

“He’ll write,” she says, “you’ll see. They look tough, these boys in their uniforms, but he’ll miss you soon enough.”

Taken aback, I glance briefly at her, and then I find myself saying, 

“He is no boy, he is tough. He has done without me very well for more years than I care to think – he will not write. But at least I know he is happy.”

And, I think, I know what squadron he is with.

I will make a point of keeping an eye on him.

Even if he wants me not – I will not be left wondering if he lives.

Not this time.


End file.
